Out of Season
by Dekuji
Summary: This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to listen to me, okay? It doesn't matter who I was before; I'm Quinn now. You have to believe me. I'm Quinn. This is me. Look at me. We don't have a lot of time. Come with me, and I swear, I'll tell you everything. Faberry, some Brittana. Rated for language and mild violence; rating may change.
1. Prologue: Disappear

**Author's Note: I generally don't write Glee fanfiction, but this story came to me, and of course, I had to get it down on paper. This is fairly AU - you'll see why below - but it takes place largely within McKinley and the basic Glee universe. I have the plot planned out several chapters ahead, but if there's something in particular you'd like to see happen with these characters/something in particular you'd like to know about them, let me know, and I will find a way to write it in.**

**And thank you for reading :)**

**Prologue  
Disappear**

I walk down white corridors with two men at my back and the heavy weight of unease on my chest. Every footstep echoes off plain walls and concrete floors, and I hate it here. The last time I was in a place like this, it changed me. For the better, I think, but that was voluntary, and this isn't, and it makes all the difference. Distrust clings to me as hard on my heels as my faceless 'escorts' and just as difficult to shake; I have the creeping suspicion I won't leave here the person I was when I came.

They put me in a room - more empty white walls, still with that surgery ward smell - and offer me a seat. I fold my hands in my lap, lift my chin, gaze steadily at the man sitting across from me. He's almost familiar, a half remembered face from a lifetime ago, and I know in an instant I'll never recall where I met him. He's the first person I've seen so far without a mask; it almost makes him likable. I hear the door click shut behind me. The man shuffles a deck of cards - white on one side; I'm starting to see a theme - while he watches me over his glasses. Shadows move in the mirror behind him. We are not as alone as perhaps he would like me to think. As if I've never seen a room like this before; as if I don't know when I have an audience.

"Have you ever wanted to be someone else?" He fans the cards out on the table.

My lips twitch. Two cosmetic surgeries by the age of 17. Invasive acne treatment. Intensive athletic training. A brutal weight loss program. Who would go through all that for any other reason? His question doesn't even warrant an answer. "I'm missing practice," I say. "My squad needs me."

"Your squad will have to find someone to replace you." He shuffles the cards again. "Your father disappeared in New York yesterday. There are protocols for this kind of thing, you understand. You'll be missing a lot more than practice for a while."

His voice is casual, as if we were discussing the weather, and his unconcern leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I clench my hands and fix him what what I hope is an utterly bored stare. To be taken from school by men in black masks, forced into a car, held down by the nape of the neck, transported to I don't even know where, marched through a place like this, left in a room where I'm sure I'm being scrutinized by strangers - that's one hell of a way to find out your father is missing. I didn't even know he was in New York. He said he was going to Chicago.

"Are you looking for him?"

"Of course. We take care of our own."

Of whose own? My father is a business consultant, or that's what he told me. I'm used to missing him for days or weeks at a time, sometimes months, while he travels from city to city with his brief case and his suits and his million dollar smile. He always says "Don't wait up!" as if he's coming home in the small hours of the morning and I can expect him groggy and travel-worn at breakfast. It's hard to imagine him never coming home at all.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" I ask.

A smile. A shrug. "You'll have to trust me."

Not the answer I was looking for. "What's the magic word?" I demand.

"You're asking that _now_?"

"I didn't really get the chance before." And it's true, I didn't. It's ironically difficult to remember childhood stranger danger lessons in the midst of a kidnapping. I was too busy wondering if the hands forcing me to the floor of that car belonged to a killer. Apparently not. Not yet, anyway. I sit perfectly still, waiting. Come on, do it. Show me the sign that makes you my ally and not my enemy. Put my mind a little at ease so that I don't have to sit here contemplating endless escape plans, each more unlikely than the next, each as short lived as the one before.

My captor smiles. He sifts through his deck of cards and offers me the king of hearts. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The king of hearts is for my father, Mark Timothy Hart. It's a stupid play on words, but it was easy for me to remember when I was a child learning to tell the difference between a stranger and an unfamiliar friend.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"Why am I here?" That seems like the most pertinent question, now that 'are you likely to murder me' is out of the way. The shadows in the mirror whisper to one another - do they think I can't hear them? I try not to take my eyes off the card man.

"Your father disappeared," he repeats, "and when an important person does a thing like that, it doesn't go unnoticed. People might go looking for a man who isn't where he ought to be, and if he can't be found, they might go looking for something to draw him out. Your father has a lot of enemies, a lot of rivals, a lot of false friends. Do you understand?"

"Someone could take me hostage." Kind of like you, right now.

"Exactly."

I'm beginning to think 'business consultant' might not be an accurate description of my father's job. The thought that I could be abducted for the sole purpose of manipulating him honestly never crossed my mind. And why should it have? He's never done anything particularly noteworthy; he isn't particularly influential; we aren't particularly rich. Not as far as I know, anyway.

"So you're keeping me here to protect me," I say.

"Hardly. This is no place for a little girl." I bristle - I'm _not_ a little girl - but I say nothing. "We foresaw this possibility; it's not uncommon in our line of work. A professional hazard, so to speak."

"And your line of work is what, exactly?"

When he says nothing, I study his face, searching for something, anything. I want a clue. I want to feel like I have a grasp on the situation. It's a cliche to say everything is happening too fast, but it is. I feel as though far too few seconds have gone by and all of a sudden I've found myself discussing my potential value as a hostage with a man I don't even know. Wasn't I warming up on the track just moments ago? No, not moments. It's been half an hour at least. Half an hour that slipped beneath my feet like a rug pulled out from under me, and now I'm breathless. Time has lost track of me; the minutes have left me behind.

"Would you like a glass of water?"

I blink. Do I trust him that much? No. He did have me kidnapped, after all. "I'm not thirsty, thanks."

"Some of our associates are as interested in getting their hands on your father's Achilles heel as our competitors."

Oh, excellent. That's very reassuring. "So what does that mean for me?"

"It means we need a new magic word." He shuffles his deck of cards again, and then he plucks one from the middle and slides it across the table to me. The three of hearts. "It's just the three of us now until your father turns up, so this'll be our sign for a while."

"You, me, and...?" Not to mention the handful of people watching us through that one-way mirror.

He reaches under the table. I flinch, and then I feel stupid; what am I expecting, a weapon? It's an envelope, visibly hefty, sealed. He turns it over in his hands. I'm speculating about its contents almost before I realize it: government scandals, military secrets, espionage. Yesterday I would have laughed if you'd told me to consider these as viable explanations for my father's extended absences, but circumstances being what they are, I'm mostly serious.

"Meet Quinn Fabray," the card man says. "In just a few days, she'll be moving from Los Angeles to smalltown Ohio, where she'll be enrolling at McKinley High as a transfer. Say it back to me."

I cock my head to one side. "Moving from LA to Ohio. Transferring to McKinley." Why do I care?

"Good. Now, Quinn is an excellent student. She carries a full load of AP and honors courses, and boasts a GPA of 3.99."

That's impressive. With a 3.96, I don't do so bad for myself, but I have to respect that extra .03. "AP and honors courses, 3.99 GPA."

"Exactly. She's 16 years old, halfway through her sophomore year; her grades have been consistent. So has her level of commitment to athletics. Unfortunately, she suffered an injury this fall and won't be able to complete for some time."

"What was the injury?"

The card man gives me a sad smile. "She wrenched her knee pretty bad. It'll heal eventually."

"I hope so. It sucks to be benched."

Another sad smile. "Judy Fabray, Quinn's mother, is a stay at home wife. Russel Fabray, the father, owns a law firm. As for the sister, Frannie is married and lives in Oregon with her husband; she's in touch, but she visits only during the holiday season. As you can imagine, they're not the closest family you'll ever meet. Judy drinks and has a poor memory; Russel is rarely home and has a short temper."

I feel a pang of sympathy; I know all about distant families. Don't get me wrong, I love my father, but it isn't always easy to be his daughter. He has high expectations, and a firm belief in discipline, and he's always gone. But gone where? Apparently not to Chicago. Maybe the meeting was moved. Maybe he was needed on short notice and he didn't have time to call. Even as I think these things, I know they aren't true. This room, this man, the last half an hour - they're proof enough that all is not as it's seemed.

"Are you going to tell me what Quinn Fabray's personal life has to do with my father's disappearance?"

The card man observes me with a patient expression. "Quinn has a full year of high school Spanish under her belt, and she's halfway through her second. Last summer, she spent three weeks in Ecuador volunteering with an orphanage."

"Well that was nice of her." I try not to let irritation creep into my voice, but it does.

"She's a nice girl. I think you'll like her." The card man opens the envelope and slides a little blue booklet across to me. I pick it up, turn it over, raise my eyebrows.

"A passport?" One of the corners is bent. There's a smudge on the front cover.

"You don't have your drivers license yet," he explains, "so this is the only identification you'll bring with you to Ohio." I open my mouth to tell him that I _do_ have a license, that I've had one for more than a year, but he raises his hand to silence me. "A student ID will be provided by McKinley. Your birth certificate is in a deposit box. So are your social security card and your immunization records."

I think I'm starting to understand what's happening. Deep breath. Open the passport. Lucy Quinn Fabray stares back at me with my own eyes, her lips graced with my smile. The photo has been tampered with, but the face is unmistakably mine. I should know; I went through hell to get it.

"Blonde?" I raise an eyebrow.

"We can dye your hair."

"Why do I go by my middle name?"

"You were picked on as a kid."

That much is true for both of us. I study Quinn for a long moment and then I give the passport back.

"How long will I be in Ohio?"

"It depends on how long it takes to find your father. I'd be say it's going to be a few weeks at least; he knows how to disappear. If he's been abducted, it won't be long before we track him down. If he's gone into hiding voluntarily, it could take months."

Wouldn't he come looking for me if he had to disappear for months? No, not if he's already got a system in place to take care of me in case of something like this. 'There are protocols for this kind of thing.' Anyone would expect a father to get in touch with his daughter; if he did seek me out, it would make him easier to find. No, my father is many things, but he isn't stupid. I'm not going to see him again until this - whatever this is - has blown over.

But months? "I have a life here," I murmur. Protesting doesn't do anyone any good, but I can't help it. The words come stumbling off my tongue. "Friends, school, my squad - I can't just leave."

The card man looks sympathetic. He reaches out as if to comfort me, and then he changes his mind. "You have a new life waiting for you in Lima, Ohio. Think of it this way: what happens when your sport is out of season?"

I shrug. Cheering is _never_ out of season. "Play another sport."

"Exactly. Your life here is out of season, Quinn. Go to Ohio. Live another life for a while. San Francisco will be waiting for you when the season starts up again."

"Quinn." I taste the name in my mouth. I imagine her sitting on the edge of her bed in Los Angeles, looking around, thinking last thoughts about the room she grew up in. She's leaving her whole world behind for someplace unfamiliar. Did she have more than half an hour's notice? Probably. I wonder if she complained when her father told her he was taking over a law firm in the middle of nowhere.

"Want to see a trick?" the card man asks.

Not really. "Sure."

He takes back the three of hearts and shuffles it into his deck. Cut the deck twice. Fan the cards out. Gather them up again. "Now find the card," he says.

I turn the deck over and freeze. White on both sides. So he turned the bottom half of the deck over. Is that supposed to fool me? But every card I pull is blank. I go through all fifty two of them before I give up and push the pile back to him.

"How did you switch them out?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets."

"You're playing games with me."

"Now you know how hard it is to find something once I've hidden it." I could swear he's smirking.

"That's unnecessarily cheesy," I snap.

"You won't be calling my tricks cheesy when they're saving your life. If I ever need to contact you, I'll do it with our new magic word. Watch for it. Don't trust any other cards, and especially don't trust the king of hearts; too many people know about it."

"How many people know about the three?"

"Only people I trust." He stands up.

"And I should trust _you_ because you showed me the king of hearts. Except you just told me the king of hearts isn't a reliable indicator anymore." And you had me kidnapped, which doesn't exactly endear you to me.

He laughs. "You have to trust someone, Quinn, and right now I'm all you've got."

I guess he has a point. When he offers me the envelope, I take it."Government secrets?" I joke.

To my alarm, he doesn't seem to think it's funny. "Your secrets. There's a lot you have to learn about your history. Your stories have to match up with the stories your parents tell. Discrepancies lead to questions; questions leave a trail."

"Even in Ohio? What are the odds someone goes looking for me in Lima?" How easy is it going to be to track me? How badly could anyone possibly want to?

"You'd be surprised. Are you sure you don't want something to drink before we go? Something to eat?"

"I'm fine, thanks." I'm ravenous, but I have limited faith in the card man's good intentions. He's right when he says he's all I've got, but that doesn't mean I can't be cautious. At least for a while. I'm not about to forget that I was brought here against my will by men in masks. I'm not about to forget the shadows in the mirror, either, or the half remembered face of the card man that I will never be able to place. There's a hard lump in my throat threatening to turn into tears and I must not let it show. Above all, I must seem unafraid. I'm not frightened. I'm in control.

Right. I'll just keep telling myself that.

"Okay then," the card man says. "Ready to disappear?


	2. Chapter 1: First Impressions

**8/11/12 Author's Note: Believe me when I say that I didn't start this story over lightly. I spent a long time thinking about it, but in the end, I knew that I had taken the first three chapters in entirely the wrong direction. Honestly, I didn't expect anyone to be reading this, so I wasn't taking it seriously. Now it's serious, and I knew I couldn't put work out that I wasn't happy with. I swear it won't happen again.**

**Anyone who is already following this story may want to consider going back and rereading the prologue, as it has also undergone some changes. They aren't nearly as drastic as the changes you'll see below, but there are a few details included that may make things less confusing for you a few chapters down the line.**

**Again, I'm really really sorry. It's terribly unprofessional to start over once you've started posting, but it couldn't be helped.**

**Chapter One  
First Impressions**

It's only been four days since the card man turned my life upside down, but it feels like forever. I've been in more states in the last ninety two hours than I think I've visited in my entire life, and I saw nothing of any of them. I spent my time memorizing lists of figures from Quinn's past - old classmates, family friends, neighbors - while I was handed off from one person to the next, shuttled from rendezvous to rendezvous in an endless chain of backseats and shotguns. We never stopped moving for more than twenty minutes, not even to sleep, and my sense of time became a blur as we slipped across state lines again and again. Our route was impossibly circuitous; I lost track of our direction within the first few hours.

Everywhere I went, there was another smiling face slipping the three of hearts into conversation so that I'd know who could be trusted. I heard them, but my trust was not forthcoming. I followed because I had to, because it was the path of least resistance, because I wouldn't know what else to do. I asked every new guide about my father. When their answers proved unsatisfactory, I began to ask who I was hiding from. They told me it was better if I didn't know.

I disagreed.

But the journey is over now, and I'm sitting in a room that isn't mine, wearing clothes that weren't mine until yesterday, waiting for my new mother to come and drive me to the first day of my new life. I wish I could just go. The fact that Quinn doesn't have a license is both unrealistic and irritating from my point of view. Her family isn't close, and her parents are rich; don't they want her out of their hair as soon as possible? But Quinn is only 16, and as the story goes, she had her learner's permit in California and never took her driving test. I'm 17, I've had my license for more than a year, and I don't feel like spending more time with Quinn's parents than absolutely necessary; Judy is insufferably formal, and Russel's voice drips with an improbable mix of derision and fatherly authority.

I can see we're going to manage this 'distant family' thing just fine.

I make every effort to rein in my impatience, my eyes on anything and nothing at the same time. Everything I need to know about Quinn Fabray is in an envelope on the desk, but everything I'm going to remember about her is already in my head. The envelope won't be here when I get home; Judy, in her only out of character moment, told me she plans to burn it while I'm at school. It makes sense, I guess, not to leave any physical evidence lying around that might clue someone in on the fact that I am not, never was, never really will be Lucy Quinn Fabray, but I wish I could keep something. I want a token of my life from before, something concrete to hold onto. Not going to happen. Get over it. Ohio isn't so bad, and it's just for a little while anyway.

Isn't it? But there's the nagging thought in the back of my mind that witness protection can make people disappear for their whole lives. Except I'm not in witness protection, and I only have to disappear until my father shows up, which could be in just a few weeks. I'm walking a fine line between faith and fear. Yes, my father will come and get me soon, and everything will be okay again. No, my father is gone, and I'm stranded here surrounded by strangers who can never know who I really am. Maybe I'm being a little bit melodramatic. Maybe that's justified.

"Quinn!" I hear from downstairs. It takes a fraction of a second too long to register that it's _my _name I'm hearing. I have to work on that reaction time. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. That's my name; don't wear it out.

"I'm coming!" I call. I swing my backpack over one shoulder, smooth down my dress, and steal one more glance in the mirror. _Not bad, Fabray,_ I think, and I tuck one stray lock of hair behind my ear. I like Quinn's wardrobe better than mine, and if I'm being honest, I could definitely get used to being blond. I will at least be undeniably pretty when I walk through the doors of my new school.

The drive to McKinley is tense. I watch houses flash by and twiddle my thumbs in silence; my new mother and I have nothing to talk about. I make a few half hearted attempts at conversation, but it goes nowhere, and I give up altogether almost before I've started. Judy appears uninterested in anything I have to say. For my part, I'm scared I'll let something decidedly un-Quinn slip out. What happens if Judy doesn't think I'm ready for this? What if she thinks I'm a danger to my own cover? So I still my hands and keep my mouth shut.

When we pull into the parking lot, Judy takes a deep breathe and turns to regard me. I watch her warily. Can she read my mind now? Does she know how unprepared I am? If she turns around and takes me right back to that house, I'm going to go mad. I've had four days of sitting still, and if I don't get up and live a little, someone is going to get an earful of my frustration.

"I got a present for you," my new mother says. Well, that's not what I was expecting. "I just wanted to say that I'm proud of the way you've handled things. I know the move has been hard on you."

Understatement of the year. I smile as graciously as I can manage and take the box she's offering me. I almost raise my eyebrows when I see what's inside. A cross? Small, delicate, and undeniably expensive. I'm not the kind of person who wears crosses, but then, my father and I were never as religious as the Fabrays. I clasp the chain around my neck while I summon up the necessary details. Presbyterian. Devout. Church every Sunday.

"Thank you, mother," I say. I'd kiss her cheek, but I don't think Quinn would do it, and I certainly wouldn't. Neither one of us is really that comfortable with Judy.

"Thank you for being so mature about this," she replies.

I suspect she means 'Thank you for not trying to run away back to California at the first opportunity.' Maybe that's the real reason Quinn doesn't have her license; they have to put a leash on me in case I decide Ohio isn't going to work out.

McKinley is smaller than any high school I've ever seen. There can't be more than a few hundred students enrolled, and coming from a school of more than two thousand, I'm amazed. I suppose it will be easier to navigate the social waters here without stumbling into unfamiliar territory, but it means I stick out like a sore thumb as the new girl. There will be no flying under the radar for me. I slip an impassive mask into place over my features and do my best not to look unnerved. Chin up, shoulders back, faint smile.

In my head, though, I'm worried. The way everyone is staring at me leaves me to wonder if I've already broken an unspoken rule. That would have to be some kind of record, wouldn't it? Ostracized in thirty seconds. Except that I haven't done anything wrong, and they can't possibly know just looking at me that I was once all too often relegated to the loser category. My appearance isn't what it used to be; I made sure of _that_ months ago. And now, with the last bits of my identity swept under the rug, I have a clean slate. So let them look at me and see a girl ready to take on the world. If they're going to check out the new kid, let them see how unafraid I am, even if I'm shaking on the inside, even if I'm scared of them, even if my palms are sweating, yes, even if I feel more like myself, only lost, than Quinn.

The principal's office has a spicy sweet smell that I can't put my finger on. Principal Figgins himself reeks of whatever it is, and strikes me right away as someone who is not as in control as he would like to be. In fact, his floundering unease borders on contagious. When he motions for me to take a seat, I stay standing. If he's really in charge, let him insist, and I will do what he says. When he doesn't, my assessment of him becomes concrete in my mind: Figgins is someone who can be pushed around. I half listen to him while he pontificates on rules and regulations I've heard at home a hundred times before. He makes thinly veiled threats about the consequences awaiting me should I step out of line, and I am unimpressed. Then he changes tracks, and I have to listen while he sings Quinn's praises for a while. Yes, she's talented and wonderful and brilliant. And what if I can't live up to that?

Back out into the hallway. I clutch my class schedule and my locker assignment in my hands like a lifeline. As long as I have these slips of paper, I have somewhere to be. Surrounded by the bustle of the student body, I can feel the attention I'm attracting. At home, this wouldn't bother me so much. At home, I have a cheer leading uniform to hide behind. At McKinley, in Quinn's clothes, I feel naked, and I have to remind myself over and over that it's Quinn they're seeing. Quinn, not me. I get my locker open on the second try and then I wonder what I've come here for. I don't have textbooks to stow away yet, and I've got nothing to decorate with. I probably should have thought of that. What would Quinn put in her locker? There's something to contemplate for the day.

My schedule is exactly what you might expect for a student with a 3.99. The only class that isn't AP or honors is Home Economics, and frankly, I'm not sure Home Economics really counts. I should be nervous. Quinn's course load is heavier than mine, and her GPA is higher, and I'm in the middle of basically nowhere in the middle of a stranger's life. But hey, I can manage this, right? Biology, Spanish, World History, English, Government, Photography. Wait, photography? Okay. Whatever. Pre Calc - here's hoping I'm not too far behind in _that_ - and PE. Ah, yes. I'm not an athlete here, and non-athletes actually have to schedule workout time. Quinn's recovering from a knee injury. Should I be faking the side effects? I don't even know what recovering from a knee injury would look like. Let's put a pin in that.

Someone slams a locker nearby. I flinch. The bell rings. I have Government first period.

It takes no time at all to realize that my schedule has been stacked to my advantage. Any concerns about keeping up Quinn's tendencies towards academic excellence disappear almost before they've arisen. Oh, there are things I'll struggle with. Pre Calc isn't going to be a walk in the park, and I've never spent quality time with a camera before. Yes, I'll have to do some extra credit here and there for honors, but the time commitment is next to nothing when I consider that half of my courses are courses I've already taken. Government? Ask me anything. Biology? I got a B the first time, and now I have a better teacher. World History? I aced it last year, but the review is nice. History is the context of modern events, after all. Not that I'd ever let on that I'm meticulous about following the news. On the one hand, it's a relief to know that I won't be scrambling to maintain Quinn's grades. On the other, I'm already almost bored. The only thing keeping me focused is the promise of English. When I'm free from History, I nearly fly from my desk. First to my locker - _now_ I have textbooks to drop off - and then to class as quickly as I can manage without looking like a lunatic.

Even hurrying, I barely make it on time. McKinley is reasonably straightforward, but between the crowds and my own nerves, I walk past the English room twice before I find it. Smooth. I hesitate in the doorway. Everyone already has habitual seats, of course, and I'm just asking for trouble if I displace someone popular, but I look like I belong on the short bus if I stand around waiting for everyone else to settle down. It's a tossup. There's an empty spot in the second row next to a boy with messy blond hair whose eyes are glued to his notebook. I like the look of him, of someone studying before class is even really under way, even if he isn't really studying, or even if he's only studying because he's behind. I like his sense of purpose. I drop into the chair with a slow sigh and steal a look at his work. He's writing in a foreign language. Not Spanish or French - I would recognize those - and I know McKinley doesn't offer anything else, so consider my curiosity piqued. I nudge him under the table with my foot.

"Hey," I say.

He looks up at me with warm green eyes and breaks into a lazy smile. "Kaltxi."

Okay. I definitely want to know what he's speaking, but we'll come back to that. "I'm Quinn."

"Sam." His smile grows a little wider. "So you're the transfer."

No. I've been here the whole time, and I've only just now decided, halfway through the school year, that it might be time to introduce myself. Quinn wouldn't approve of my sarcasm. "That's me. What are we reading?"

I could have asked anyone in the room, or better yet, I could have waited for an instructor to show up and tell me, but, all sarcasm aside, this boy with his smile and his foreign language is making me feel welcome for the first time since I disappeared from cheer practice in California, and he isn't even trying. Stay with me, Sam, and protect me from the big cold world. I want to wrap myself up in your friendly demeanor and wear it like armor.

"All Quiet on the Western Front," he's telling me. "We're just starting chapter six."

I scrawl the title on a fresh sheet of paper. I've never read All Quiet on the Western Front, but the name is familiar; it's one of those books everyone should read at least once in their lives. Germany. World War I. I'm pretty sure I have a copy in San Francisco.

"Are you liking it so far?" Keep him talking. Class will start any minute now.

"Yeah," he says. His face lights up. "I love war stories."

Before I can open my mouth to reply, the girl in front of me has turned nearly all the way around in her chair to stare Sam down with a look of cold fury. I take in deep brown eyes, dark hair, and the most blatantly argyle sweater I've ever seen.

"It's not just a war story, Sam," she says. "It's a commentary on the nature of combat as it was in the early 1900's. It's a classic! And its relevance to the cruelty of the modern world cannot be overstated, so I hope its significance isn't lost on you, because as a young man in the 21st century, it's very important that you understand the true cost of global violence. As much as I hate to admit it, the male side of the species still dominates public discourse, and while I think that says a lot about the state of international affairs, I can't do anything about it until I'm a star, so it's up to you, Sam Evans, to hold off World War III until after I've conquered Broadway, and if you think All Quiet on the Western Front is just a _war_ story, I'm afraid the future of human civilization is in grave danger."

Wow. I'm still trying to work out how conquering Broadway relates to a male dominated society when she turns her gaze on me. Her expression softens at once, and my heart inexplicably skips a beat.

"I'm Rachel Berry," she says. "Welcome to McKinley."

The instructor strides in. With one lingering look, Rachel turns back around to face the front of the class. Sam shakes his head.

"Sorry," he mutters. "She's always like that."

I'm too stunned to reply. Someone is saying something about me. Pardon? Ah, yes, the new student speech. I give an awkward half wave to the class while the instructor reminds everyone to be nice. Some of these people have been in every class with me so far this morning. Is it really necessary to introduce me again every hour? But I can't complain, so I accept a fresh copy of the book with a polite smile and flip through it while the discussion topic of the day goes up on the board. The whole story is less than 300 pages. I'll be done with it before I go to bed tonight.

It's hard to stay with the lecture when I'm itching to just read, but I can't afford to miss any more analysis than I already have. If there's anything I've learned from high school English, it's that seeing the readings the way your instructor sees them is going to count for more on the test than your own interpretations. I hate it, but it's true. I take notes as dutifully as I can while my mind wanders among the book, and Sam, and Rachel. Sitting next to Sam is probably the best decision I've make all day. He's cute, and a little antsy, and he keeps stealing shy glances when he thinks I'm not looking. If this were California, I would be doing my best to make it abundantly clear that he should ask me out. We're in Ohio, though, and I don't plan on being here very long. Quinn will have to be stubbornly unavailable. That doesn't mean she's not open to friendship though, and really, who wouldn't want to be friends with Sam? I've known him for all of about ten minutes and I already adore him.

And Rachel. Let's not talk about that sweater, because really, no one in their right mind would ever dress like that. We'll also steer clear of the implication that the fate of the world depends on Sam. For all I know he has designs on a major role in international politics, but something tells me it's more likely that Rachel has a flair for the dramatic. I don't like drama, but I do like people who can look beyond the surface of a book, and Rachel certainly seems capable of that. I don't like Rachel, but I kind of do. I've never had a more conflicted first impression in my life.

When the lunch bell finally rings, I'm the first to stand up. Sam touches my arm as I'm gathering my things.

"Do you want my notes on the first five chapters?" he asks.

Do I need them? Probably not, but it's sweet of him to offer. "I'm okay for now," I say, "But thanks." And then, because I really do want to befriend him, and because it's something Quinn would say, "Walk me to lunch?"

His face falls. "I want to, but there's a thing I have to do. Just... go to the cafeteria, okay? And wait for me." He walks backwards as he talks and nearly knocks over the waste basket. The boy is too charming for his own good.

"Okay. I'll see you there." If you don't trip on something and die on the way. Sam smacks his head against the door frame, and, with a sheepish wave to say that he's alright, he disappears into the throng of students in the hall.

I barely make it out of the room before there's a camera shoved in my face and someone speaking rapidly, animatedly, over my shoulder. "This is Jacob Ben Israel, with the scoop on McKinley's newest student, Quinn Fabray."

Here's an unambiguous first impression for you: Jacob Ben Israel is the most spectacularly distasteful person I have ever laid eyes on, and I hate him the moment his voice first slithers into my ears. From his jewfro to his awkward shuffle, there is nothing about him that doesn't fill me with contempt on the spot.

"Tell me, Quinn Fabray," he wheezes. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

I shoulder past his cameraman. Let him pester someone else with his questions. There's enough time for only a momentary stab of guilt - Quinn would probably have offered him at least a little of her patience - and then he's cutting in front of me.

"So is that a no?" He makes what I'm sure is meant to be a sexy face and I do my best not to gag. Okay, Quinn, we'll do it your way. But when he's awful, I'm not going to apologize for telling him to go to hell. I know his type, and nothing good ever comes of them. Ever.

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now," I say. Evade the question. Get him to try another approach.

"I see. Is that because the boys at McKinley aren't good enough for a Hollywood girl?"

My mouth drops open without my consent. What the actual fuck. "Boys are the same everywhere," I tell him. "I'm focusing on myself right now."

"What do you have to say about the rumors that you came to McKinley because you couldn't hack the Southern California lifestyle?"

Yeah, I don't have time for this. I brush him aside and make my retreat. If I keep talking to him, if I let him ask me more questions, there's a good chance I'm going to say the wrong thing, and I can't have that. I certainly can't have it on camera. Isn't this exactly the kind of video that goes viral on Youtube?

"Are those boobs real?" he calls after me.

It takes all of my strength to remember that I am a girl who volunteers at orphanages. I am a nice person. Nice people don't deck losers between classes, no matter how much they might want to. Besides which, it would mar Quinn's hitherto perfect record, so I put one foot in front of the other until he disappears behind a wall of unfamiliar faces. Good riddance. I take the long way around to my locker, just in case he's still following me. Put the binder away. Get my lunch money out. I shouldn't take All Quiet on the Western Front with me if I'm meeting Sam, but I can't help scanning the first few lines before I walk away.

_We are at rest five miles behind the front. Yesterday we were relieved, and now our bellies are full of beef and haricot beans. We are satisfied and at peace._

I wear a blank expression as I stalk towards the cafeteria, eyes sharp for any sign of Jacob Ben Israel. I wonder if the people passing by really are all thinking that I've moved to Lima because I washed out of LA. Probably not, but it's an amusing idea. I've never even been to Los Angeles, and my breasts certainly weren't made there. I don't want that to be the reputation I start out with; it doesn't suit me, and it doesn't suit Quinn. Maybe I'm making too much of this. Jewfro and his camera could just as easily mean nothing in this place. Moving on. I fall into line in the cafeteria.

What would Quinn Fabray have to eat? I linger with my tray for a few seconds too long thinking about it, and someone pushes past me with a grumble before I settle at last for chicken and a plate of questionable vegetables. Quinn is likely to eat healthy, and she isn't likely to starve herself the way I would have at home. Even if this isn't the most appetizing lunch in the world, even if it's more than I usually allow myself, even if I'm not sure exactly what it is, I can at least safely say I'm not eating crap. Students are loading their trays with pizza, and tater-tots, and packets of chocolate milk, and I wrinkle my nose.

I'm barely through the line when I catch sight of Sam clambering onto a table in the middle of the room. I'm not sure that's the brightest idea, and I'm doubly concerned because Sam, as nice as he is, has not given me any reason to believe he isn't clumsy. Someone passes him a guitar. Someone else stands up next to him. Another boy with a guitar - and a mohawk, which is the epitome of awesome - climbs onto the next table over. I don't know what's more astonishing: the dozen or so kids on tables, or the fact that no one else in the room seems to have noticed them.

And then the music starts.

Sam has seen me. He turns towards me with a grin and gestures with his guitar. _Come here._ No, I'm not going over there, I'm going to stand right here until I figure out what's happening. Rachel - yes, Rachel from English class, Rachel who thinks argyle is a legitimate fashion statement - catches my eye with a smirk and begins to sing.

Oh. Lord. I don't think I fully appreciated how small she was when she was sitting down. Rachel is tiny; she can't possibly be more than 5'2 and a half, and she probably weighs about a hundred pounds soaking wet. So where did that voice come from? It feels too big for her body. She fills the room with it until there isn't, can't possibly be, anything else in the whole world. It's just her, and that voice, and the sound of my heart stopping in my chest.

_Welcome to the planet, welcome to existence, everyone's here, everyone's here._

I don't think there's any way I'm going to keep standing if she's going to keep looking at me like that. I take a step backwards and nearly collide with someone behind me. He spews obscenities. Only then do I realize that time hasn't actually stopped. People are moving around, talking, getting their food, ignoring the performers, taunting the performers, watching them with bemused expressions. Am I the only one who can't look away?

_I dare you to move, I dare you to move._

Rachel finally breaks eye contact, and I can breathe again. At my old school, you never would have seen a song and dance routine go down at lunch. A dozen voices come together, a dozen figures step in time, and Sam hops tables until he's close enough to lean over me with his guitar and that boyish grin. He jerks his head. _Come on,_ he seems to say._ Dance with me._

"I am not going up there," I laugh. I have absolutely no desire to humiliate myself on my first day of school.

He shrugs and turns away from me. Rachel draws my attention again. _Where can you run to escape from yourself?_ Ohio, apparently, but don't quote me on that. _Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go? Salvation is here._ One of the girls dancing is, I kid you not, a cheerleader. Tall, pretty, blond - she's a walking cliche. Has the whole world gone mad, or is it just me?

_I dare you to move like today never happened._

Honestly, if you told me today never happened, I might be inclined to believe you. When the song finishes, and the performers are standing perfectly still, there's a silence in the room for one heavy second.

"Man, don't we have some kind of 'no faggots on the table' rule?" Someone complains.

And then it's over. A few people laugh. Conversation rises again as if nothing has happened at all. Sam jumps down still fiddling with his guitar.

"Did you like it?" he asks.

I can't help but smile. "You guys were really good," I admit. "Do you make a habit of embarrassing yourself in public?" And do people always call you and your friends faggots when you sing?

"Yes ma'am, I do." He takes a mock bow. "But I'm the quarterback, so I can get away with it."

I cock an eyebrow. I wouldn't have pegged Sam for a football player. "Quarterback, huh? So that makes you the local prince charming."

"Oh, I wish." He's leading me across the room, and I'm not altogether sure when I decided to start following him. Or where we're going, which is probably also a relevant question.

"What do you mean you wish?"

"I mean," he says with a serious face, "there can't be a prince charming without a princess." He takes my tray from me and slides it onto the table next to his own waiting meal.

This isn't happening. Oh, no, definitely no, the quarterback is not allowed to flirt with me on day one. If he's even flirting. If I'm not reading too much into this. And maybe I am, because who am I to assume the quarterback should ever want to flirt with someone like me? Except I've gone to great lengths to be sure that I'm someone a quarterback could fall head over heels for, so I know perfectly well this isn't arrogance talking right now. This could be a very real, very serious problem. A few weeks of puppy love is not worth breaking his heart. Quinn would never stand for that, even if I would. So now what?

"I'm sure there's a princess out there for you somewhere," I assure him. "You'll find her."

"Maybe I already have," he says.

Look at this giant mess I've gotten myself into


End file.
